Candidate - 095
by Xlerons
Summary: "Strength through Paranoia."


**Candidate - 095**

* * *

 _ **Chapter I - Rationalized(?) Paranoia**_

* * *

"There is an ancient saying, "The beginning of wisdom is ignorance." So where do we begin to create the ultimate warrior? With innocence." - Catherine Elizabeth Halsey

* * *

 _She hadn't exactly known what to expect, truth be told, the whole situation that of untrodden ground, its nature beyond the controversial, blind to the ethical. She'd had ideas, notions of course; that they'd be confused, scared, afraid, perhaps too tired or apathetic to maybe even care, all things considered. Child psychology had never been amongst those many talents included within her long list of studied faculties and subjects, though it did not prevent her from formulating a certain number of reasonable outcomes based upon basic life experience and regular observations alone. The risks of denial, resentment and of a shed tear or two were, they also, quite likely in her opinion. Remarkable, exceptional and unique as they were, 6 year olds were still, undoubtedly, children. Whatever gifts they possessed, however ahead they stood in contrast to their age, sheer aptitude, knowledge and brainpower could not compensate for the lack of maturity and wisdom that came both incrementally and naturally with the passage of time; correctly interacting with others, diligently working so as to become part of society's greater system. Instead, it would be here, surrounded by soldiers, scientists and their stolen companions, that they would grow, adapt and learn, inside this twisted, corrupted form of a social experiment, herself a monitor, the abductees the mice._

 _She did not attempt to justify her actions; the deed was done, the math gone over. There was no alternative, none who's outcome outweighed their decisively superior costs. Solely this solution, solely this price._

 _The words came easily, flowing off her tongue, ringing out her mouth, encouraging, patriotic, hollow. The truth, she'd decided, no matter how watered down, no matter how thinly-veiled. "You have been called upon to serve," "You will be trained," "You cannot return to your parents." Brief explanations, each as vile, sordid and dubious as the last, and yet still she pushed on. Her audience's responses differed._

 _Stunned silence, trembling lips. Curiosity, rapt attention, interest. A myriad of varying sentiments and emotions._

 _John kept her gaze. Understanding, comprehension, restraint._

 _Jai, frowning, opposed, made to leave; his handler, strong, tall, muscular, sat him back down, hefty palms placed squarely upon the trainee's comparatively diminutive shoulders despite his, like the others, above average height, thoughtfully but forcefully glueing him to his seat._

 _A drill instructor screamed._

 _A bit hand, a toppled chair, shouts, chaos, running, dodging, jumping, scratching, a mad dash for the closest of the chamber's exits. Some navy men moved, those nearest to the incident, automatic, hurried pace quicker than that of the rapid sprint of a 6 year old's meager legs, arms grabbing hold, fingers refusing to let go. Pejoratives exploded, a surprisingly bountiful and diverse assortment of swears, curses, obscenities and expletives, profanities and worthless threats pouring out from the attempted escapee's throat, loud and high pitched, creating a scene of desperate, angered and almost morbidly funny action that clashed horribly with the other youths' reactions and the dire seriousness of their circumstances. Shrieks of "Bastards!", "Murderers!" and "They'll kill us all!" roared out over and over and over again, all jumbled up and intertwined with unsettlingly anguished, frenzied sobs and futile struggles, outstretched hand reaching for the doorknobs in admirable yet vain hope._

" _I don't want to die!" Went his cries. "I don't want to die…"_

 _Caleb's pleas went unanswered, 095's violent throes soon smothered through dual usage of needle point and sedative injection. From the edge of her vision, Halsey eyed Mendez at her rearmost right; impassive, stone faced, unflinching._

 _Under guard and watchful eyes, the other children looked on, escorted out._

 _Amidst a surge a guilt and resignation, she wondered if she'd made the right choice._

 _She squashed her self-doubt._

* * *

The room was quite nice, objectively speaking. Plain walls colored a soft, soothing beige, an assemblage of tastefully chosen, comfortable furniture and authentic, living potted plants, none of those fake, plastic ones which felt like wax to the touch and reeked of chemicals to the nose, with actual, honest to god windows built into the roof and sides by way of cutouts and skylights, allowing for a veritable inflow of real, natural light, indistinguishable yet somehow different than that generated and imitated by the artificial lamps throughout the base. The floor was carpet, cream, supple and fluffy when wiggled and scrunched up beneath his toes, long proven terrible for hygiene and a bane to properly clean in comparison to its more practical, and often more beautiful, tile and hardwood cousins, and yet ending up more cozy for it all the same. Some reading materials sat both fanned out in deliberately calculated arrays and in nice, neat, straight columns, climbing their way to modest heights, a humble selection of varying and entertaining board games squatting in precise stacks and rows below the large and transparent, see-through glass coffee table upon which the former objects rested; The Art of War, The Guns of August, All Quiet On The Western Front, Ender's Game, The Forever War, 1984, 300, Risk, Stratego, Mastermind and a chess board, to name a few examples. A desk, computer, monitors, sofa, couch, chair and rectangular pair of ottomans completed the decor, sheets, blankets and pillows sprinkled liberally all around, with further thin, plain, low-lying bookshelves and a holo-painting finishing it all off. Like he'd thought; a nice room, objectively.

And then there were the cameras.

And the speakers.

And the microphones.

He hated this place.

"Trainee - 095."

He knew they were there, hidden, unseen, overlooked, recording every sound spoken, imaging every movement made, listening, watching, archiving, from every corner and from every angle, just as he knew they must have been wherever it was that they were allowed, and wherever it was that they went, collecting, gathering, storing data for future use, from body language to the pitch of his voice, or so he figured, with some more obviously placed than others. The walls had ears, the ceilings eyes. He knew this because he'd found one, once, in this room, hidden amongst the darkened topsoil of one of the greens within, a tiny, painted, camouflaged thing, buried by the side of a bonsai tree. If he recalled correctly, he'd been fiddling with it as he'd continued to ignore his interrogator, one whom hadn't even deigned to acknowledge his discovery as she'd kept on asking him questions she must've known he wouldn't have had answered by then, as was the case in _all_ of his previous sessions, acting with total obliviousness as he'd then proceeded to speechlessly pull out the unabashedly offending intruded, it too trailed by an equally guilty wire and eventually, equally minuscule transmitter. And while the discovery hadn't in it of itself been a revelation, the uncovering of actual, concrete evidence of both his and his several fellow kidnapees' well founded suspicions was far more disquieting. He saw them everywhere. And he knew. And he knew the they knew. And he knew that they knew that he knew, and so on and so fourth and on and on it spun, tell acting like some dark vortex from which he, in fact, knew of no escape. Over and over, again and again.

"Trainee - 095?"

Motherly, was the word. Immensely long hair, voluminous and hip length, a lustrous red. Dainty nose, round glasses perched atop, copper gilded. Big, soft green eyes laying underneath. Fine features, thin cheeks, a swan neck. Smart, presumably. Beautiful.

Like him.

Like mother.

New.

A low blow, cruel as well. Disregard it? He couldn't, his own feelings weren't under control; psyche versus biology, mind over matter, the latter of the two both winning more often than not, the soul bested by nature. It hurt.

Ever since the first, those who came to speak with him were never the same, nor did they rotate; always a fresh face, a distinct individual, like clockwork. Were they researchers, councillors, therapists, psychologists? He drew blanks. Was he the only one who received such treatment? Questioning his peers appeared to confirm such. There was no way around, the weekly meetings mandatory for all cadets, and although they could openly visit as often and almost any day they so desired, this could only be done so whilst during their precious little free time. Linda had rumored that even a couple of employees went, rarely, sometimes, but no more than a few. Or was that itself, it too, a scheme, a ruse, to humanize their captors?

A game, their game, all naught but a game, he thought. Layers concealed within layers, facts obscured amidst fictions, all encompassing lies piled upon falsehoods and seeded with truths and half-truths, themselves most likely altered, biased or spun… Weren't they? He didn't know. He wanted to know. He didn't want to know. Fear, boredom, curiosity, endlessly digging at his brain, imploring him to stay quiet, demanding him to seek answers, begging him to talk, to have company, to engage, to communicate with somebody, anybody, on his level, his true level. The others were his age, smart, and incredibly bright to boot, just, not like him, not like he needed. Ignorance was bliss yet, to him, the unknown arose as far, far, far more frightening. He didn't know anymore, he didn't know. He'd grown lost, so lost; reality seemed to slip through his fingers no matter how hard he tried. Could a person grasp when they were being brainwashed, conditioned, indoctrinated, or were such routines purely too inconspicuous and subtle to detect? Did it matter either way? No solutions, they alluded him. It all just kept falling apart; was that maybe the plan? To break him down only to then build him back up, piece by piece, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month.

Year by year?

"Caleb?"

Another attempt. Unfair, nostalgic. She said his name. He hated that, the manipulation. Only Halsey used their names. He hated her too, her arguments and rationales be damned, his own objectivity be cursed; not when he was there, not when he was the victim, the lab rat!

"…Caleb…?"

Slow, anxious, earnest. A different approach, a calculated move, coincidence, intuition? He didn't know; he didn't know! Was it a plot, a trap, genuine worry, legitimate kindness? Nothing made any sense anymore, his thoughts jumbled up, cynical, disbelieving, caught up in his own realm of substantiated paranoia; justified paranoia! He remembered the lore, bits and pieces, major characters and key locations, a casual fan. Extra dates, trivia and minutia had long since vanished, purged for space, deemed unimportant.

He should've known better.

Who was the enemy? Was she the enemy? Were _they_ the enemy? Was he going insane? Blame the lack of contact, the self-imposed isolation, his inquisitor's empathy? He was probably wrong, over reacting, obsessing, overthinking. He wasn't a doctor. All he had were weak theories, shaky guesses, unfounded suggestions. Besides, this wasn't some fantasy land, some random movie, novel or vid where whichever 'agency' in question could find and detect whomever and whatever they wanted as the plot demanded, right? They couldn't predict everything… Could they? Damn it all he'd gone right back to the begging, had come round full circle!

He preferred the training, the games, the sweat, the fights, the simulations, the muscle aches, CPO Mendez and those goons he had the gall to call marines. Despised the exercise, the punishments, the pain, yet preferred it to this prison of the mind, this complexity; things were simpler on the field, rewarding, fun. Don't think, follow, be dutiful, obey.

Was that their ploy, their method? To have him do what they want, to push him into the joy that was mindless child soldiery? School _was_ boring, the lessons there too easy, their purpose too transparent. He already knew their function, seen it all, read it all, understood the context, the bigger picture. Déjà was not one for finesse anyhow. But if he knew, did they as well? More assumptions, coming apart. Was he drugged, conceivably the food supplements, something else? Vague recollections, random speculations, fragments, fragments. Chess master or chess piece, king or pawn? It is double the pleasure to deceive the deceiver. Out of his depth, out of his league. Getting off track, dazed, disoriented, what had he been musing on again? Never-mind.

They were _still_ watching.

Arms, warmth, a hug. Human contact. It was deliberate, must be deliberate. A delicate finger brushed along his face; it felt wet. Was he crying? He wasn't crying! Hands clutching his head, knees pulled up, pressed against his chest. Too much, too much, too much! He wasn't a child, not a child! Adults don't cry, big boys don't cry!

Big boys don't cry.

"Do you want to talk?"

Yes, he wanted to. He was tired of the heartache, tired of the sorrow, the lies, the secrets, the anger, the grief. He wanted to go home, to Newport, to Luyten. Let ONI have their bone. Six months; there was no win scenario. Escape bids failed, escape bids succeeded; he never got far enough for it to be of any consequence. Were those tests too? When he'd first arrived he'd envisioned an inescapable fortress; bars on every window, time locks on every door, schedules, codes, passwords, armed patrols, trenches, barbed wire, motion detectors, alarms, pressure plates, tripwires, from the expectedly mundane to the patently ridiculous, all to guarantee incarceration, to preserve the project's literally civil war sparking conspiracy should even the slightest of details slip out, spread out and turn ablaze. Scarce analogue locks, sparse electric fences and a smattering of watchtowers was what they'd ended up facing instead, as if dared by their jailers to just try and make a run for it, so certain of themselves they would, no matter what, always be back, always be returned, always be captured, and that even picturing leaving was, in essence, a pipe dream. To them, in his view, it was a sport, they the hunters, he the prey.

And now Jai had given up, Adriana and Mike following and with none of the trio bothering to simply explain to him the _why_. Was there anyone left to count on, anyone left to trust? Daisy, Ralph, Kurt perhaps? The others?

John?

No. He was alone. Exhausted and terrified.

The silence dragged on, the air vents hummed.

"Caleb."

" _Please. Stop._ "

Enough. Let go. End it.

Speak.

* * *

The sun had set, they'd turned the lights on. Overhead, the ever present buzz of fluorescent bulbs reverberated throughout the hallway, smooth metal walls and polished tiled floors echoing the beat of their footsteps, three pairs, his own and the two handlers', duo herding him back to his dorm and bunk at his own pace, neither inciting nor spurring, only trailing. Of the two he recognized one, a Private Morris; the other was a mystery.

For a brief instance he felt relaxed, unloaded, his peace of mind achieved. His pace was calm, his breath untaxing, his heart serene. The world had removed itself from Atlas' spine.

Then the weight of his actions began to seep in, the words clear, the memories sharp.

Reality came crashing down.

In a burst of rage he punted a decorative glass ornament not but a meter ahead, translucent crystal eagle smashing effortlessly upon the unforgiving ground below, razored shards of hard and shinning substance plinking freely across the area as the cacophony of noise echoed unabated.

" _ **GOD, DAMN IT!**_ "

For a moment he stood there, fingers fisted, inert, unmoving, his body shaking, his toes in agony.

Haltingly, he bent down to wipe up the mess, headless of the risks of cuts or injuries.

A lightweight palm sat itself onto his shoulder, squeezing gently.

He refused to look up.

"Tomorrow." Said Morris.

The glass crunched beneath their soles.

* * *

"He spoke."

"Mmhhmmm." She went. Blocking her vision, Halsey secured the loose bang of black hair died blonde behind the crux of her ear, sniffing. "So he has." Paper crackled within her grasp as another page was flipped; the physical transcript made for quite the tome.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just read it on your data pad or, better yet, watch the recording? As in the one I'd sent you?"

Quick circling, swift pen strokes, dark blue ink popping up in wonderful contrast against the classic white and black leaflets. "Sometimes the old ways are best." She set her tool down. "So."

"So…?"

"You're the neuroscientist and psychologist here, Dr. Alban, what do you make of all this?" Her arm gestured in a wide, sweeping motion. "Care to give us your prognosis, or diagnosis even, perhaps?"

Graham squirmed, he was really beginning to doubt his involvement in this whole accursed thing. Fidgeting, the good doctor unconsciously adjusted his spectacles, digits and stylus speedily taping and swiping across his tablet as he pulled up the relevant information. He read.

"Caleb F. Aagard, henceforth officially designated as Caleb - 095, civilian identification number 78104-985-RB etcetera, etcetera…" He coughed, clearing his throat; addressing the children by name even to his colleagues left a rather unpleasant sensation in his mouth, leaving it parched and dried. It gave the kids back some of their humanity, made him feel bad. He continued.

"Psychological evaluation of the subject has revealed several different types of conduct and behavior similar or equal to a pervasive suspiciousness of authority figures, both real and imagined, a general mistrust of others and an unhealthy degree of self-imposed isolation, greater than the originally alluded too introversion as recorded in said candidate's record. Also, the subject in question has, since his arrival and conscription into the Orion Project's successor Spartan-II program, shown increasingly lower amounts of remorse towards any form of harm imposed unto others, both physically and mentally and almost exclusively oriented towards staff, be it military or civilian personal, as well as elevated levels of aggressiveness, violence, callousness and an overall generally low, negative and dismissive attitude to any person or persons he comes to perceive as a threat or instrument active or involved in any way, shape or form, and no matter how limited or how minor, in his current imprisonment, an evolution in demeanor which has even begun to seep into his already finite interactions with his peers in training and from whom it is known he has typically attempted to conceal, limit or reign in his true feelings and motives should he have believed it would make said companions sad, uncomfortable, or did not share his own well established desire for desertion or escape. While an official diagnosis has not yet been formulated at the time of this report's filling, these said observations can however be matched and linked as possible symptoms of both PPD and APD, otherwise known as paranoid and antisocial personality disorders. No form of treatment has yet been scheduled as of this document's filing, albeit common sleep inducing barbiturates have been steadily laced in his nightly dinner meals to ensure a full 8 hours of prescribed sleep as formally requested by Chief Petty Officer Franklin Mendez upon realization of said trainee's unusually drained and fatigued state, and so should be taken into consideration before any further imposing of other, conceivably administrable drugs in order to prevent unwanted synergetic or antagonistic side effects."

Graham swallowed, wishing he had something at hand to drink. Rereading these summaries, too, was distasteful.

"That's quite the account, even in comparison to our other usual suspects. And do you stand by this appraisal?"

"It's what my team and myself have settled on so far, so yes. And while other trainees such as 006, 111 and 120 have exhibited similar tendencies, none of the three have come anywhere close to 095's extent. Claiming the destruction of the Haven archeology in Mamore's Mato Grosso province as a false flag operation to justify the UNSC's military crackdown on the Insurrectionist throughout the outer colonies is what I believe to be a reasonable cause for concern in my opinion, wouldn't you say? And that was just one of several such stories he bladed off about to Dr. Coulter."

"In your opinion, perhaps."

Alban's tongue temporarily faltered, sputtering, "Are you trying to tell me that you actually _believe_ this delusion?"

Halsey's brows furrowed, presumably in annoyance. "No, of course not. And while I would hardly put it anywhere beneath ONI to pull off similar kinds of operations, considering our own current positions, I've not yet been convinced of the notion that they would be either absurd or foolish enough to do so. Caleb is a proven amazingly intellectual little boy whom has grown bitter, angry and fearful with what he sees as his seemingly omniscient kidnappers, Déjà will attest to that. I would not put it above his overstressed or agitated state of mind to concoct such explanations, illogical to us as it might seem; it is logical to him. We let him swim away into his own sea of doubt, he sank, and now he can start to see us as the lifeguards come to save him. And besides, the simple fact that he's finally started to come around and actually acknowledge your people without any further medication or prompting should be taken as a kernel of success, shouldn't it?"

"The act of purposefully denying 095 some measure of regularity throughout his psychiatric conferences by persistently changing his assigned clinician every time is not what I'd label as uninvolved, especially Mrs. Coulter. Having the woman made up to look like the boy's mother; _Halsey…_ "

" _Minimal_ intervention then. It was _your_ department which proposed it, after all."

"A motion which I _vetoed_ with good cause."

"And yet the results speak for themselves."

He was getting nowhere. Truly, did this woman have no soul? "Well you'll have to forgive me if I am not of the same church of belief, Dr. Halsey, and if I am more of the thought of trying to address these now apparent issues as soon as possible and before they can become more of a problem than they already are."

"And that is why you were invited to this meeting, to submit your own professional judgment in counterpart to our own. Speaking of which, Mendez? Your take on this affair?"

The Chief Petty Officer stood to both scientists' left sides, rigid in his posture, iron in his stance. His hand clasped and folded behind his back, he voiced, "Cadet-095's training and physical regimentation has advanced as anticipated. His muscular constitution has so far met our requirements, with average rankings across the board. It's become common knowledge amongst both myself, the trainers and his peers that he loathe's the instruction but is far more agreeable when participating in mock battles, an exception to the rule where he's shown considerable tactical and strategic nohow ahead and beyond his peers and our predictions, if displaying less than stellar combat ability. He can think fast, adapt and easily analyze and understand the situation, though he is unable to properly communicate and therefore lead those who might follow him. Overall he's done best when paired with one of our more charismatic and confident trainees such as 051, 092, 104 and 177, as have others, these additionally making up the top candidates for future squad leadership. While disobedience, disrespect and insubordination were quite common, the number of violations decreased to essentially negligible degree through the repeated application of negative encouragements, remedial punishments and the occasional use of the guards' shock batons."

"Is that explicitly necessary Mendez, don't you find that a little excessive?" Interrupted Graham, an expression of turmoil and unease painting his features.

Mendez acclimated without fault, the CPO smoothly transitioning to accommodate the extra inquiry. "The trainers are always careful and the jolts never harmful, only painful. The batons have also virtually never been used following the first month and then only if the infraction is of an appropriately severe nature. My purpose is to strengthen and prepare them, not needlessly harm or torture. This is standard procedure, what works best, and is most efficient." The navy man then inhaled, carrying on with his earlier statement. "To finish off 095's only remaining offenses are mumbled insults when he believes it is safe to do so and a refusal to accept the martial or nationalistic ideals we have been trying to make the cadets understand. He'll outright mock them if he can and has also trouble relating to the others. His interpersonal dealings are customarily few and far between, or unless he's having fun." Mutedly, he exhaled.

Once more Halsey picked off. "Any questions?"

No replies.

"Alright then." In idle focus she drummed her fingers, soon steepling, weaving and crossing them together in the approximate shape of a tent, thumbs extended to rest her chin atop. A pair of tinted, reflective eyewear was all that was missing. "Déjà, we'll have your commentary and then move onto a consensus on what, _if anything_ , should be done in terms of Caleb's longterm management. The rest of the associated minutia I'll handle myself at a later date. Now, if you please."

"By all means Dr. Halsey." Responded the dumb AI, artificial intelligence's voice smooth and glassy, motes of bluish light dancing round her luminous white hair, chosen avatar that of greek goddess; barefoot, wrapped in a characteristic toga and clay tablet held ever-present within her left hand. Projecting herself from the small, holographic stand upon Halsey's austere aluminum desk, the coded being elucidated.

"Caleb-095 is, a previously mentioned, uncommonly intelligent. While technically ranking below a token few of his peers on the Finchy-Franks intelligence quotient, curriculum quizzes, reviews and essays have gauged him at a significant, university level education. Examples include a profound awareness of higher level mathematics, science, history, reading and writing, the first two in which he is, at said level, indifferent but adept, the third enthusiastic and most interested in, and the final two disdainful yet skilled. Furthermore, while many gaps in his field of knowledge exist, ironically in history the most, these are suggested to have come into existence through disuse rather than complete unawareness if my study is correct.

Accordingly, I have had to significantly adjust his individual teaching plan so as to keep him working and engaged, lest he loose his already nominal enthusiasm for the classroom setting. He is a both an undeniable completionist and perfectionist at heart, though this carries him only so far. This has, however, made it difficult to have him cooperate with his classmates as a whole, and has therefore made integration with them a more complex topic, notwithstanding aiding and tutoring his peers whenever they should request such from him or be in need. The children often find learning or asking from on of their own more comfortable than myself, and I have supported this path of thought.

Also, Caleb-095 has taken a somewhat derogatory liking of the name Dolos when speaking of but not to me."

"Meaning?" Asked Dr. Graham.

"Dolos is oft identified as the spirit of trickery and guile within the ancient Greek pantheon, while also being known for is mastery of cunning, deception, craftiness and treachery. This is most likely due to 095's perception of myself as the main instigator of propaganda and indoctrination, dissimilar yet parallel to Chief Petty Officer Mendez's own physical regimen of the program, and so has come to begrudge me for what I instill and its subsequently sought end goal. However, in contrast to Chief Petty Officer Mendez's earlier obstacles in reference to name calling, 095 has never done so to my face. This is conjectured to be due to his incapacity to decide whether or not I am in full control of my actions, or whether I am knowingly or unknowingly forced to do so as a result of my programming, basing myself off of his own explorations on the topic in general in one of the papers I had assigned him to write." Answered the AI.

In an attempt to reinforce his and his team's diagnosis from earlier, Graham's arm extended in Déjà's direction, palm straight laced and open, back of his hand pointed towards the floor. Halsey's eyebrow rose, though in response to him or the intelligence he couldn't say.

Mendez merely blinked. Did nothing faze the man?

"To finish off," Continued Déjà, wrapping things up, "Caleb-095 has openly advertised his passion for all fictional and historically oriented literature, be it real or fictional and based upon his checkout records from the academy library, and has spent considerable amounts of free time playing in management, simulation, tactical and strategic oriented video games, preferring them to board based equivalents, though he is not adverse to them, most likely to the sheer size, depth and scope available to his whims thanks to their digital medium. This intense dedication to them may also be related to the trainee's desire for control and self-determination, the absolute power he wields in these said distractions serving as his most personally potent form of escapism, next only to actual physical escape itself. This concludes my findings."

A beat passed by, each of the office's four occupants taking in the time to come up and make their own conclusions. Then, perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Halsey whom spoke first.

"As far as I see things, I believe we should let things run their course, see how Caleb further develops before adhering to any strict kind of corrective management. See if we can ween him off the soporifics as of right now, the sooner he can accept his situation and find sleep on his own, the faster he'll be able to adjust and fully persuaded in what it is we're trying to do here."

"Now, onto Jorge, I hear he's been doing exceptionally well during his training…"

* * *

"Strength through Paranoia." - Margaret Orlenda Parangosky

* * *

Word Count: 4,955

* * *

Author's Notes:

...

Cover image attributed to Bee Train Production


End file.
